Welcome to the Underground
by I Am Blueberry
Summary: Why will Harry Potter really destroy Voldemort? To take over the rest of the Wizarding World, of course! And this time, he's doing it the right way. Intelligent!Dark!Harry, H/Multiple pairings, OOC, Ron&Ginny Bashing, Evil!Dumbledore, slash. Set in OotP
1. It Begins At Night

**Welcome to the Underground**

"**It Begins at Night"**

By xHiddenM

**Note**: 'Sup guys! This is my first Harry Potter fanfic that I'm intending to continue should this get a lot of hits and preferable, tons of reviews! And honestly, I'm not completely happy with how this first chapter turned out, but stick with me and it'll get better.

My story includes OOC, Intelligent!Confident!Dark!Harry, Evil!Dumbledore, H/Multiple pairings, slash, noncanon, Ron&Ginny Bashing, and the like. Questions? Drop a review or a PM. **Some chapters may not be in chronological order,** **scan the author's note** (or just read the whole thing) for some quick info. Please review if you want more! Some chapters may be depressing, others fluffy, and some even romantic and sappy. Sorry about mistakes.

This is only the beginning.

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**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _is owned and created solely by JK Rowling. The original characters are mine alone, however.

**Warnings**: Violence, character death, crude language, disturbing and graphic imagery, gore, slash

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_**-Harry Potter-**_

**1:02 AM (Grimmauld Place) United Kingdom**

Harry absentmindedly stared up at the ceiling of his shared room. There was nothing more he hated then lying awake at night. Usually, the Dursleys worked him to the bone in the summer time, leaving him exhausted, and of course, Hogwarts was simply so exciting and all sorts of things happened to him.

But he simply couldn't sleep anymore. No, Cedric's dead eyes haunted him, his mother's endless scream.

His eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment.

"_Kill the spare . . . "_

"_No! Not Harry!" _

"_You see Harry, Voldemort is my past, present and future . . . "_

"_Harry!" _

"_HARRY!"_

He sat up quickly, eyes wide open. There was nobody there. No faces to stare at him intently in concern. No one was calling his names. Harry wasn't sure who's voice he'd heard in his own thoughts, but brushed it off and turned to the nightstand beside his bed to look at Ron's watch. The redhead himself was snoring rather loudly in a separate bed.

The watch ticked loudly in the quiet, and Harry snatched it up, gripping it tightly. The cool face of it seemed to burn in his palm, while the leather wristband felt neither warm or cold – just worn by years of use.

Harry stepped out of bed, throwing the sheets off of himself rather hastily, yet silently. Ron would be pissed if he woke him up at – a quick glance at the watch – one in the morning. So, with that thought on his mind, he threw the sheets off of himself and crept out of bed silently, flinching at the groan of the mattress springs.

With another quick glance at Ron, Harry gently shut the door and continued walking just as silently down the hallway and down the stairs. Perhaps a cup of tea would help. Maybe even a biscuit or two. It never occurred to him how he never tripped over anything – not even a leftover dungbomb or one of the twins' newest contraptions. The rumpled carpet releasing puffs of dirt did not make him stumble. His stroll in the dark of the house was uneventful.

Once in the kitchen, Harry made quick work to scavenge through the cupboard in search of a teapot and cup. Instead he came across mindless junk shoved aside to make more space for china plates, cobwebs, and – aha! – a scratched teapot with silver lining. It was very small. He set it up upon his find, and continued his search for a cup.

"_You filthy brat!" _his aunt's voice echoed through his head.

"_They died in a car crash years ago! Do not ask again!" _

"_Boy! Get over here, now!"_

"_I want the bacon made right away – you burn it and that won't be the only thing blackened. Four scrambled eggs for your Uncle, two for me, and six for Dudley. Take half of that loaf and toast it. make sure to slice up the fruits on that bowl over there, and drop that knife, boy! You're holding it wrong! And put the butter out on the table . . . "_

His fingers skimmed past the bowls and a mess of silverware, which happened to include wicked knives with jagged ends. One was curled inwardly – and if it wasn't so insanely deadly looking and sharp it would've been a tad comical. He picked it up out of curiosity and, examining the rusted tip, bit his lip and gripped the smooth handle as another memory hit him.

"_You're a freak! Nothing better than your parents were, and look where that got them!" _

Harry threw the knife aside roughly, allowing it to fly across the room and clatter to the tile floor. His hands trembled violently as he clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly, nails digging into the calloused skin of his palms.

He breathed in deeply to calm himself down, allowing the thud-thud of his heartbeat to overcome his thoughts, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest. Something flashed in the back of the cupboard, behind the bowls. A cup. It was a cracked teacup, mind you, with purple lines as decals and a charmed golden flower that fluttered slightly painted on his side.

_It must be magic_, Harry thought sarcastically. He snatched it out of its hiding spot just as the kettle went off, skimming over the tea packets scattered across the countertop and choosing one at random. Earl Grey. Not bad.

With a shrug, he made his tea and drank it, feeling the warmth of it spreading throughout his body. But it seemed to wake him up even more rather than make him drowsy. Sighing, he accepted it, concluding he won't be getting a wink of sleep tonight.

He drummed his fingers on the wood of the table, feeling more and more restless as the seconds ticked by. Finally, he shoved his chair back and barely caught it just as it tipped over, spilling scalding hot liquid along his hand. Swearing a little, he licked it off and pushed the chair back in, deciding that saving the chair from falling was worth a little spilled tea. No need to make more noise than he already had.

Harry decided to go for a walk around the house. He was mindful to avoid the occupied rooms, however, and settled on exploring the rest of the house with the tea kettle in one hand and his cup in the other.

Although it seemed to scare the others, Harry secretly enjoyed Grimmauld place and admired the house. However, it did need some serious cleaning. And perhaps a little lightening up. Or something like that.

His bare feet padded across the cold floors and the dusty carpeting for a good twenty minutes. There was hardly ever a creak from the stairs, or a complaint from his eyes about the dark – which didn't bother him. Harry had spent a good chunk of his life in that cupboard with the Dursleys, and the light bulb went out quite often. He was accustomed to the dark.

Eventually, The-Boy-Who-Lived stumbled across a door similar to the entrance of his cupboard. Just to see how much it resembled his old 'room', he took his teacup and bit down on the non-cracked edge, holding it with his mouth. Now with a free hand, he twisted the brass handle (the only difference between his cupboard and that one), and pulled the door open.

Instead of the slanted ceiling and shelves along the sides like he'd been expecting, there was a very narrow stone staircase. Ducking his head, he stepped inside, taking the cup out of his mouth. Goosebumps rose upon his flesh once his bare toes made contact with the icy stone. There was a very thick scent in the air, something like fresh-baked bread and the amazing stew his aunt would cook up every once in awhile.

There were forty-two steps to the staircase – he counted each step as he walked – and a rickety rail that looked rusted and ready to collapse. Once at the top, he realized this wasn't a new hallway, or perhaps a set of hidden stairs that also led back up to his room.

_This is probably the attic, _he mused.

This was a library. The floors were a very smooth, light colored wood. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was bamboo. Every single wall was covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled at maximum capacity with every type of book imaginable. What didn't fit the shelves was piled on the ground in uneven stacks and scattered around in no particular order.

A large circular window was the only space parallel to him that wasn't covered by books. Instead, the books were magically spelled to curve around it. They were stretched out of proportion and shaped a tad comically, but Harry enjoyed the view the glass gave him of the brilliant crescent shaped moon. It illuminated the whole place quite pleasantly.

In the middle of the room, a desk of the same wood as the floor was placed besides a black, cushiony chair. Parchments were stacked neatly off to the side, along with a brightly colored peacock quil and a jar of navy blue ink. A fat candle sat next to it. Nearby – perhaps a meter or two away – was a deep green loveseat. A small, golden rug covered the distance between the two.

Harry wandered around the attic. What hadn't been cleaned of Grimmauld place was infested with bugs and extremely dirty. Yet here, there was virtually nothing wrong. It was only dusty.

Glancing at Ron's watch and seeing that nearly an entire hour had passed, he wasted no time in striding across the room towards the shelves, picking out every book with a title that sounded useful or just captured his interest. Within moments he'd grabbed books with titles along the lines of _The Most Successful Heists of the 1800s_ to_ Counterattacks and Defensive Hexes, Curses, and Spells_ to_ Wizarding Household Spells and Charms_. But the ones that had snagged his thoughts the most were titled far more simply than that: _Wandless Magic Beginnings _and _Controlling Magic_.

Harry settled at the desk – candle automatically lighting itself and parchment flying towards his waiting hands. As he read, he took notes and tested out spells the books had recommended and/or instructed.

An hour passed.

Then three.

Yet he never left the attic. Harry spent every moment following the books. He paced the room, deep in the thought, never stopping for anything expect his tea, which he drank even as it got colder and colder. Not like he noticed.

_(Untitled)_

_Chapter Thirteen: Magical Cores_

_Although the majority of the wizarding population use wands, they are, in fact, a multitude of things. _

_Useless_

_Limiting _

_Foolish_

_Among other things. Burn your wand and focus on your mind and body. You do not need a wand to have magic, which is proven through accidental magic children often experience – and in some cases, very powerful adults. _

_You are one with your magic. You are your magic. Without your core you are nothing better than a Squib or even a filthy muggle. Meditating brings at your peace. While emotions play a strong part in control, they must be brought out at will, and lessen dueling in a blind rage. Concentrate on channeling your core. Animate your thoughts. Your spell. Your mind. The more you practice it, the easier you will be able to control it and bring your magic out at will._

Meditate.

Concentrate.

Animate.

_Controlling Magic (Pg. 134)_

_Wands are simply places where your magic flows through. Even when no light or color is visible, it exists in the simplest things (i.e. Summoning Charms, Levitation Spells). _

_Magic is visualization. If you cannot _see _your spell in your mind and its effects, you are simply pushing magic into a stick and hoping it'll hit your target. Don't bother with saying words. Don't even bother with textbooks. While magic does have its limits, and not every enchantment will happen the moment you see it, there are far easier ways than memorizing spells. _

_Start with a summoning charm. Pick an object in your room. Perhaps a cushion of some sort. Study it. Imagine it flying towards you, into your waiting hands. _

Harry held his hand out, palm first, eyes narrowing in deep concentration. He picked one of the pillows on the couch and took a moment to take in its features. It was a lighter green then the rest of the couch, with cloth similar to velvet if it wasn't.

He could practically _hear_ how it whizzed across the room, the feel of it on his fingertips, and WHAM.

"Dammit!"

It smacked him in the face. The cushion had come across the room faster than he'd been expecting, and had missed his hands entirely. Well, it was better than nothing. He sipped his tea and continued reading, holding the cushion in his lap and running his fingers across the cloth. Yes, it was velvet.

_**-Hermione Granger-**_

**5:03 AM (Grimmauld Place) United Kingdom**

"What do you mean he wasn't in your room, Ronald?" Mrs. Weasley shouted frantically, throwing a panicked look at Sirius, who was groggy, in a robe, and rubbing his eyes.

"Perhaps he'd just wandered around the house, Molly. I'm sure he's fine." He yawned.

"He could've been kidnapped! He could be with You-Know-Who – or dead, for all we know! And Ronald – "

"Molly," Mr. Weasley sighed, taking off his glasses and cleaning the lens with them hem of the shirt. "Let's search the house first. If not, contact the rest of the Order and we'll figure out something from there. I must be getting off to work, dear. I'm truly sorry." He kissed her goodbye quickly and left, nodding at Sirius. The door shut quietly behind him.

"He might've – "

"Fallen asleep – "

"At the loo – "

"Ron's done that – "

"A million times!"

The twins grinned while Ron glowered at them.

"I have not!" he spat.

"Whatever you say, Ronnikins." They shrugged.

Tension remained, however, as an awkward silence took over.

"Search the house! Move!" Mrs. Weasley barked at the group.

The twins glanced at each other and disapparated without a word to their mother, while Ron mumbled things as he staggered away sleepily.

Honestly, Hermione had no idea how they could be so tired at this hour. Although it was a tad early, it wasn't ridiculously early like two or three in the morning. She turned on her heel and left to search on her own, her brilliant mind already working twice as fast as usual, considering where he could've gone. The kitchen was out – they were just there, as was Ron's room, and most likely not anyone else's room. Not even Ginny's; she was sharing with her.

But, just as the last people left, and Sirius finished his morning tea, she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.

"Sirius?" she questioned.

"Yes?" he blinked sleepily to her.

"That knife," she pointed. "What's it doing on the floor?"

The head of the Black house frowned at her and strode over, kneeling. "Huh. This was one of my mother's favorite knives. I'd bet a galleon Kreacher was messing with it. Damn elf." He picked it up and walked back towards a cupboard, throwing it inside.

Again, Hermione noticed something else. "Sirius, you wouldn't happen to be drinking Earl Grey Tea, would you?"

"No, why?" he turned to look at her wryly.

"I think Harry was." She responded, picking the empty tea packet off of the counter and piquing Sirius' interest.

"He must've come down in the night to get a drink. I've done it a million times before. Go search the house with the others, 'Mione. Try not to touch too much – there are dark artifacts we've had yet to get rid of."

"You think Harry might have gotten to one?" she inquired worriedly.

"It's not exactly an impossible thought, but we'll see. I'm sure he'll turn up somewhere." He grinned at her not unkindly and left the room like the rest.

**6:42 AM**

Harry Potter was almost officially lost from them. Mrs. Weasley was ready to Floo Dumbledore, and Hermione was frustrated. They must've gone through every room in the house and he still hasn't shown up! It was almost maddening. Hermione was reminded of the time she'd been a child, when her doll had gone missing.

Both she and her parents had searched the whole house. It was her most precious toy, with pretty wide blue eyes, dark lashes, forever smiling pink lips, auburn hair and dressed in a sapphire blue long sleeved dress with golden accents, and black heels that tied onto her ankles with string. She could've sworn she'd left in on the stairs by the entrance to their attic – which had been the last place they'd checked. It turns out, a dozen rats had moved into their house, stolen her doll, and chewed it up, shredding her dress and marring her delicate features. The hair, it seemed, had made it even worse. The rats had enjoyed chewing that the most apparently, for the loose curls were tangled completely, soaked in saliva, and in some places, completely ripped out.

It was the scariest and most traumatic thing for her. Ever. The doll ruined, her parents had been forced to throw it out after taking care of all the rats.

Pausing by a vase, Hermione let out a sigh. Was Harry like that too? Torn apart and damaged beyond repair? Eaten and picked at by rats in an attic?

Suddenly she wondered if Grimmauld Place even _had _an attic. But what would she find should he be in there? A mangled Harry? Swallowing her fears, she looked around. Attics tended to have entrances from the ceiling, at the top floor. Maybe Sirius knew where it was . . .

Hermione had been about to run off to find him, but upon turning, she spotted an unclosed cupboard. Why was it open? Someone had probably checked it. Just to be sure, she pulled the door open, revealing a narrow stairway.

_No way . . . _she thought, breaking into a run up the stairs. Could this be it? Is Harry inside? Would he be covered in dirt and grime, half torn up by some sort of unspeakable monster? Is that why he hadn't been responding to their calls? Was he dead?

Heart pumping, adrenaline pushed her up the stairs at a fast pace. She wasn't sure how many steps there were, but it felt like a hundred. Panting, she made it to the top.

"Harry?" she called whipping her hand around, trying to locate messy black hair, emerald green eyes, rats . . .

There he was! Sitting at a desk with . . . books surrounding him. What? His hair was mussed up more than usual, hand running through it as the other scribbled frantically on the parchment – which was filled with his sloppy scrawl.

"Harry?" she asked again, this time somewhat nervously. His head snapped up, surprised.

"Hermione! You'll never guess what I found!" he exclaimed happily. Then he frowned. "What are you doing up this late?"

"Harry . . . it's almost seven in the morning." She informed him, confused and a bit concerned over the way he was acting. How early had it been when he'd gotten here?

He did a double take and stared at what looked like Ron's watch. "Damn, hadn't realized the time." He mumbled. "Sorry. I found this library at around two AM earlier. Couldn't sleep."

"What library?" she frowned doubtfully. If there was a library then she had probably already seen it. There were a multitude of books around in empty rooms that could be considered a librbary.

"'Mione, look around!" Harry laughed. It was her turn to do a double take; all of these _books_! God. Her eyes widened dramatically as she turned to looked behind her. And then turned again. There was simply so much!

"H-How did you find all of this?" she gasped. Harry laughed a little.

"I was wandering around late last night," he explained to her. "Spotted a little door, looked inside. Went upstairs. Found this. Everything here is so _fascinating_, 'Mione! You've gotta read some of these books. I've learned so much. Look,"

With a wave of his hand, the books around him were levitating in the air and flew back to various shelves, some to other piles further away on the floor, a cushion or two towards a couch. A rug had automatically straightened itself out. A shattered tea kettle repaired itself.

"Harry!" she scolded. Was he trying to get expelled for sure? "You're not supposed to be using magic outside of school – you already have a trial coming up!"

He only laughed again. "Don't worry so much; this is wandless magic. The Ministry's trace only works through wands."

"Trace?"

"It's how the Ministry catches people using magic outside of school. It goes away once you're of age. Personally, I think it's stupid. How are you supposed to practice what you've learned over break without actually practicing?"

"Where did you get all of this information?" she asked. Surely he hadn't learned all of this on his own?

"The library, of course!" Harry smiled at her, gesturing towards the shelves.

"This is incredible!" she breathed. Hermione wandered over to the shelves, picking a random book and flipping through the pages, freezing when she spotted a bloody illustration of the effects of a nasty slicing hex. Quickly she put it back and chose another from a shelf above. A potions book on 'deadly and torturous acids'.

She threw it on the floor as if it had burned her. "Harry – this is _dark_ magic!" she gaped.

"Technically, that was a potions book. It's not magic." He pointed out, smirking as he stood up and stretched. "Ugh, my back hurts."

"You shouldn't be reading these, Harry. It's not good for you." Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, biting her lip.

His expression hardened. "You can't tell me what I can and can't read."

"I'm not saying that I am!" she snapped.

"Then stop acting like it!" he snarled back.

"I . . . " she didn't know what to say. Why was he acting so viscously to her? "I'll have to inform the others about this. It's great that you're reading more, but these aren't good books. And you're acting strange, Harry! What's wrong?" she changed her approach to something more concerned than angry, but Hermione had a feeling he saw right through it.

"'Mione, you can't tell the others about this!" he said, panicked. "They won't understand!"

"Harry – "

"Look," he cut her off. "If I promise not to read these books, can we keep this a secret? Please? Between us?

"I don't know – "

"C'mon, Hermione! I'll stop doing magic without permission, I swear."

She eyed him unsurely, but hesitantly, she voiced her agreement. "Promise you won't read these books?"

"I promise."

"Fine. Let's just pretend nothing happened, alright?"

Harry sighed in relief. "That'd be great. Thanks, 'Mione." His shoulders sagged, all tenseness gone from his body. Instead he casually leaned back; hips against the desk as he took a cracked teacup and downed it all in one go. Then he promptly spat it out, shuddering, "Ugh! Tea is never good cold." His friend had to giggle at that. "So, how did you find me up here, anyway?"

She looked horrified. "Damn! I completely forgot," He cocked his head to the side, curious, but Hermione was already grabbing his wrist and leading him downstairs. "The whole _house_ has been looking for you! Oh, I hope Mrs. Weasley hasn't already flooed Dumbledore; she'd been moments away from doing it just as I found you."

They made it down the stairs at record speed. "Mrs. Weasley! I've found him! I found Harry!" she called.

Harry heard hurried footsteps as many came bursting into the hallway. "Oh, thank God. Harry!" the eldest Weasley woman scooped him up in a near-deathly hug. "We were so worried!" she pulled away quickly, grasping him by the shoulders, examining him for injuries.

"Where on earth have you been, mate?" Ron asked.

"Yeah," Fred and George grinned at him cheekily. "Were you asleep at the loo?"

Harry laughed out loud, surprising Hermione. He'd always been a bit more toward the shy side. "No – did fall asleep on the floor though. Sat down for a moment and then next thing I knew Hermione found me in a hallway." He explained it so simply, as if that was what actually happened. Which it wasn't. No. Far from it, in fact.

It bothered her, what he had done upstairs. All of those books – the thought made her heart flutter. And what he had done, how he had simply moved his hand and the room had righted itself. What else could he do now? How much had the books taught him? _What_ had the books taught him, exactly? Hopefully, Harry had stayed away from the more gruesome books. She knew him. He wouldn't read that sort of thing. Death Eaters read that sort of thing – if they even could read. No, Harry had probably picked up some more simple things – wizard cooking and the like. That library had so much inside; it wouldn't have surprised her if it even had books like that.

But, it left a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. She spends the past five years studying for Hogwarts and making perfect marks yet in one night, he instantly breezes past everything and does even better. And Hermione couldn't even say it was because he was born into a family of wizards since he'd been raised by the Dursleys. And from what she'd been told, they had been nothing short of cruel to him.

Over the course of the night, he'd become completely confident and powerful.

"'Mione? You alright?" Harry asked at her, looking down at her fondly. Suddenly she realized he was much, much taller than he was before. But just as her mouth opened, Ron spoke.

"Mum, are we having breakfast soon?" he moaned. Harry laughed as everybody began heading to the kitchen. Within moments, her friends were all in deep conversation with each other, Mrs. Weasley had started cracking eggs, and she was left standing there.

If Hermione didn't know herself any better, she would say she was _jealous_.

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_It Begins at Night _end.

_Chapter Two _to follow.

**Drop a review!**


	2. Harry At Privet Drive

**Welcome to the Underground**

"**Harry at Privet Drive"**

By xHiddenM

**Note:** Sorry guys, second chapter and I'm already making you wait two months for the next. Anyway, this chapter **does not take place directly after the last! This takes place before Harry goes to Hogwarts.**

Questions about this chapter or the story so far in general? Drop a review or PM me, but if not just review anyway, please! Please follow me on Instagram for sneak peaks and awesome facts from the Harry Potter fandom and more. My username is _** writer_lighter**_

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**Disclaimer: **_Harry Potter _is owned and created solely by JK Rowling. The original characters are mine alone, however.

**Warnings: **Violence, character death, crude language, disturbing and graphic imagery, gore, possible slash.

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_**-Harry Potter-**_

**January 8****th****, 1990 (Number Four Privet Drive) United Kingdom, 5:04 PM**

Harry Potter was nine years old and locked away in his cupboard. It'd been a bad day for him, that Monday. Dudley had been poking fun at him for longer than usual. He was pretty good at ignoring his cousin, so Harry walked away and continued shoveling snow out of the Dursley's garage and sidewalk, and then proceeded to shovel the knee-deep snow – well, for his relatives it was knee-deep. For Harry, it was getting to his waist because he was so small.

He coughed violently into his elbow and shivered. Harry had been outside for almost four hours, as their driveway was very big and he was thin and weak, and not at all suited for heavy lifting, much less the continual hours of it. He had also been forced to skip lunch, as Petunia promptly threw him back out to finish the job. It didn't really bother him that much – he was quite used to skipping food for a day. The young boy could sneak a roll of bread into his hoodie pocket easily, or perhaps an apple and the like. As long as he had a little, he'd last just a little bit longer.

Harry's arms and shoulders jerked as he forced the shovel deep under the snow and struggled to lift it high enough to toss into his pile – which was now taller than him. With a grunt, he finished off the last of the snow. The driveway was a little bit muddy, and there was no doubt that Petunia would give him an earful for it. Or perhaps, if she was in the kitchen, she might just let it pass and let him make the rest of supper.

It all depended. Glancing at the sky, he saw how dark it was getting already, and guess it was around four-thirtyish. He grabbed the heavy bag of salt, and began to distribute it as evenly as he could along the ground, which was a lot harder seeing as his arms were already weakened.

It took him another good twenty minutes, but it was much easier then shoveling for hours nonstop. By that time, he was very pale, but his ears and fingers were pink, and it had already started snowing again, turning his black hair into a salt-and-pepper mess. It clung to his sweatshirt and oversized jeans, the piece of twine he'd taken from the garage when he'd been cleaning it this morning had long gotten cold, and he could feel it though the denim. His sneakers had mud on the soles, and it was steadily soaking up into his socks, which drooped over the edges of his shoes and got just as disgusting.

As he dragged the bag back to the entrance to the garage, he inspected the driveway once more. The salt was a little heavier in some places than others, so Harry swept it evenly along the ground with his bare hands (Dudley had for once, been smart enough to steal the garden gloves he'd been planning on using from the shed) and sneakers.

The moment he'd finished, Harry ran back inside the house, taking off his sneakers before stepping inside the pristine doorway and going by the kitchen to his cupboard to put them inside so he wouldn't leave a mess in the house.

"Boy! Are you finished yet?" Aunt Petunia demanded, setting out a plate of uncooked, half chopped vegetables and steak. Harry nodded his response as she tossed a knife at him, which he jumped back to let clatter to the countertop before grabbing. "Get cutting. We're having stew tonight. I've already prepared the meat, and the pie is cooling. You'll be preparing the rest yourself. Don't you dare forget about my rolls. Move!" she barked.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said, gripping the knife she'd thrown tighter and started with the onions. He didn't hesitate as he moved in the kitchen. In fact, if he hadn't had Petunia barking orders at him, Harry would've enjoyed it. Soon enough, the whole house smelled delicious, and the timer for the rolls went off.

He was quick to snatch up the oven mitts and take out the pie. The heat didn't bother him, and at the same time, he monitored the pot in which the stew was cooking. Around then, Harry heard his uncle pulling up in the driveway. Aunt Petunia sent him a glare for good measure before leaving to open the door. Nervously, Harry began to set the table for three, as he knew he would not be eating with them. Pouring their drinks, he made a split second decision and grabbed a plastic sandwich baggie and scooped up some soup from the pot. It was hot and burned his skin, turning it red. But that didn't stop him. He was hungry, and he ran back to his cupboard as he zipped it up, making sure it didn't leak and left just as quick.

Harry was pouring the stew into their nice bowls and put it on the tables. His uncle sneered at him and Dudley waddled in from the living room. As the Dursleys took their time eating, he waited in the kitchen and watched them, imagining eating that delicious smelling soup, that it was _his_ hand holding the spoon, and _him _that was eating it, enjoying it. But he bit his lip and kept quiet as they finished. He poured Vernon and Dudley seconds, and then thirds, while Petunia ate in tiny, dainty amounts and never bothered with seconds.

Once they were almost done, Harry got out new plates and began to carefully cut the pie. This was always hard for him, as it generally came out crumbled. Thankfully, he was actually doing an alright job tonight.

"BOY!" his uncle roared from the dining table. Swallowing, Harry called back, "Coming, uncle!" He hastily finished off the last piece and picked up all three of the plates at once, one in each hand and another balancing on his left arm.

He was in a hurry and concentrating on getting to the table without dropping the third plate. Most times, they never fell. But he noticed when Dudley stuck his foot out to trip him. He nimbly stepped over it, but then his stupid, _stupid_ cousin raised his foot upwards, and cut him off at the ankle.

Harry, the first plate going to his uncle, had almost touched the table when he fell. The two plates on his left crashed and hit the floor. His knees hit the ground first, but he'd been close enough to the table for his forehead to get clipped on the corner.

If he'd been a little bit further away, he wouldn't have hurt his forehead, and in turn, the right plate that had been half balanced on the edge wouldn't have fallen. But it did, and crashed beside him. Pie sprayed everywhere, a mess by the glass.

Dudley outright began to laugh at him, as Vernon's face turned a nasty shade of purple, and Petunia clenched the napkin in her lap tightly. Shame burned his face as he tried to get up off of the floor. Ignoring as sharp bits scraped his palms, his throbbing head was only that, throbbing, and he shook off the distant ringing.

"BOY! GET UP!" his uncle finally snarled. Harry nodded, wincing as it made his vision swim. He continued to ignore his pain and swept the glass directly into his palms, pieces of pie and took it to the trashcan. Vernon was ranting, something about his 'kind' and his horrible parents. His vision blurred again, but this time it wasn't from his injuries as he scrubbed apple off of the floor and Petunia went ahead and gave her husband and son pies, balancing the plates the same way he had and easily making it to the table.

With a nasty look at her nephew, she sniffed and sat back down as he cleaned. Vernon grabbed him by the back of shirt, forcing him off of the floor and back to his feet. He had pie in his mustache.

"_You," _he growled, breathing heavily, mustache puffing with his heavy breathing, _"Will-go-hungry-tonight, boy_!" and then he tossed him back to the ground, knocking the breath out of him. Vernon rose from his seat and grabbed him by a fistful of hair, dragging him across the floor as Harry struggled to both get his hair released and to get off the floor.

Vernon didn't notice, or maybe he did, since his grip got a little bit tighter, and he jerked him forward roughly before throwing his cupboard door open with a loud bang that made Harry flinch violently, and he cried out as his uncle threw him inside.

Just as the door began to close, however, something caught Vernon's attention.

_Why was he still here?_ Harry wondered, feeling the overwhelming panic bubble up from his stomach.

Eyes wide, he gripped the blanket on top of his mattress tightly with his tiny, pale fists as Vernon snatch up the bag of soup and threw it at him, causing it to split open and splash across. Cold liquid and little pieces of meat and vegetables filled his gaze and dripped across his front, trickling across the floor and into the hallway.

"So, you think you can steal from us and get away with it, huh, boy?" he sneered at him and raised his hand, smacking him roughly. It threw Harry to the side.

Now, Harry's cupboard had five shelves. Two by his feet and three by his head, if you went from where he was lying down. He was practically thrown to the third shelf, and the little light bulb above trembled with the force. All the same, he only felt extremely dizzy after. He'd barely recovered when Vernon rammed his fat foot into his side, and his shin and ankle banged into the other two shelves. Pain flared from different parts of his body.

This continued for several more minutes before Vernon finally relented and hefted him up by the shirt once more, pulling him close to his face. "If you ever steal what was never yours again, you will regret far more than you've _ever_ imagined you could!" spittle flew around, and Harry blinked violently to try to protect his emerald eyes.

On that note, Harry felt himself being thrown back once more, and it knocked the breath out of him. He collapsed and laid there for a few minutes before finally getting up.

He changed into his pajamas, an extra, extra, large plain white shirt and loose, thin sweatpants. His messy clothes were rolled up into a little ball and gently put onto one of the shelves, where it'd sit until laundry day. Carefully, he scooped up the leftovers of the stew and didn't spill it. It was cold, but even cold food was better than no food. It tasted good anyway, Harry figured.

He took his time eating what he could save, shivering. It was very cold in the cupboard, especially in the winter time. The nine year old curled in on himself until he finished. There were little tiny cuts on his palms, and his head ached.

But still, he forced himself up onto his knees and searched the shelves of his cupboards, pulling the string down to turn on the light. He didn't like turning it on unless he had to, because it wasn't like his aunt and uncle were just going to let him take a light bulb and replace it anytime he wanted. That didn't make sense, now did it?

So he tried to be as quick as possible and scanned for the little First Aid kit that he sometimes used. It had been a while, however. A full week since he'd last had to use it. The shelves were filled with little things, old towels Aunt Petunia never used anymore, a burnt out light bulb, extra buttons, some sewing needles and black thread, a bucket he sometimes used if they wouldn't let him out to use the bathroom, and then, behind a broken snow globe, he found the little white package with the bright red plus sign on top.

Harry quickly flipped it open. Were his wounds severe enough for the gauze? Did he need stitches? No, he decided. He'll use them when he really needed it. This kit had lasted nine years so far, and they'd have to last another nine until he turned of age and could leave Privet Drive.

He took out the thin band-aids and a little disinfectant spray bottle, which he used after picking out the shards. Harry neatly cleaned up afterwards and put it in the bucket. Afterwards, he relaxed and turned out the lights and began to daydream.

Harry Potter knew nothing about his parents, what life had been like before he came to the Dursleys. He was a bit too young to remember that time, but he liked to pretend that deep down, he could. What were their names? Where was the car crash? Where were they buried? Didn't they have other friends, someone besides his relatives? Were they really 'nasty old drunks'? He hoped not. His relatives were probably saying it to spite him, anyways.

Absentmindedly, he tried to picture what his parents had looked like. Maybe his mother had dark black hair, his pale skin, and nose, while his father could've been blond with the green eyes he'd inherited, and maybe he was as thin as him too. He wasn't sure. What were their jobs? His relatives said they had no jobs, but Harry didn't like to think that. But, to be brutally honest, there was always a possibility that they had not been lying to him, and they had all the reason to treat him so horribly and to hate his parents.

Where had they gone to school? How old were they when they had him? Harry wanted to know so badly, to find all of the answers to his questions, but he wasn't sure. It pained him.

Sighing, Harry rolled onto his side and changed the subject of his thoughts . . . he'd been doing well in school, recently, during a parent-teacher conference that required the whole family, because Dudley was doing so bad in school and it was truly worrying their teacher.

She'd informed his aunt and uncle, and Petunia had burst into tears, shrieking and holding onto Dudley, howling about how it wasn't his fault, and then the teacher, mildly disgusted but handling it very professionally (Harry wanted to applaud her,) had continued and mentioned his obesity. It brought both parents to a shouting match, and the teacher was more than a little scared.

Finally, after much apologizing from her, she moved onto a 'better' topic. Harry was doing very well in school, and she then suggested that, as cousins, he could tutor Dudley. Harry was unable to hold back a snort and another screaming match had begun. From then on, he was forced to fail his classes, didn't do his homework, and didn't study for tests. However, that didn't mean he didn't pay attention. He loved learning, but was forced to not be able to prove it. He got mostly C's (he couldn't be held back, now, could he?) and the occasional B. But nevermore did he get an A, not without getting beat up.

Harry wondered what he would do when he got older. His grades were hardly helpful to him anymore, unless he somehow began to find the courage to raise them in middle school. Perhaps, a year or two from now, he could hit a growth spurt, and get some sort of leverage over his relatives. He didn't know what he'd do later on in life, but he did know that when he could, he would leave. And never look back.

They'd never be worth the time for him to look back. Harry shivered under his blankets. It was so, so cold in the dark. There was only a little light, as it was getting late. The hallway light was soon turned out and he was left in total darkness.

Harry sighed and took off his glasses, pulling the blanket up to his neck and shoulders. He wondered then, just as he was falling asleep, what it would be like to get presents on Christmas, on his birthday, what a real family dinner would taste like, what talking with friends, laughing, and being able to eat whenever he wanted feel like.

He'd never had any of those things, but maybe someday he would. Someday, he would leave and get all of the answers he wanted. Someday, everything would be perfect.

Not just yet, however. For now, those things, to Harry Potter, would never exist.

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**Summer of 1995, (Grimmauld Place) United Kingdom**

Harry James Potter, the son of James and Lily Potter, had gotten his eyes from his mother, was virtually a thinner, younger copy of his father, and spent his school year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His mother had red hair and his father had black. They were killed by Tom Marvalo Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, on Halloween of 1981. He only saw the Dursleys partially over the summer, had gotten a real bedroom, and had friends and family dinners with the Weasleys, Order, and his father's best friend and Harry's godfather, Sirius Black, in said man's house.

He was a wizard, and had killed Professor Quirrel when he was eleven, faced off a basilisk, saved his best friend's sister and killed his parent's killer (sort of) twice, chased down a madman who was actually Sirius, and was actually framed by another friend of Harry's dad, Peter 'Wormtail' Pettigrew, and got attacked by _another_ of his dad's, Remus Lupin, a werewolf and the best Hogwarts DADA teacher he'd ever had. And then he got attacked by over a hundred dementors, which he fought off. In his fourth year, he was chosen for a tournament he hadn't signed up for, faced a Hungarian Horntail, Merpeople, was part of Voldemort's rebirth, dueled him, watched Cedric Diggory die, and got turned down by his crush, Cho Chang, when he asked her to the Yule Ball.

Although it didn't sound like paradise, Harry decided it was heaven to him.

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_Harry at Privet Drive _end.

_Chapter Three _to follow.

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